15 Poems from the Willow

Wisdom Is Dead, All That Remains is Memory
Awiiya

The blanket of the dead, it snakes and curves alive.
Open and flighty, they topple themself.
The little hands knitting, they on her infinite wool shelf.
The little hands open and close like buds,
A thousand seasons cycling through the warm season love.
They knit, she sits, and the time flits, it does not matter.
One, two, three, twenty four, her hands in a constant chatter.
She creates a blanket, miles long, in a pile on her wooden floor.
She whispers to each of the technicolor threads she holds, why she loves them more.
“For you, Joseph. Annie. Hearthrow. Jimmy. Mother. Sister. Brother.”
Her dead, she lets them live and play, within the fuzzy confines.
The blanket of the dead, it snakes and curves alive.